Southend U3A

When I was ten or eleven, World War II was in full flood and with the bombs falling around the local munition factories and bad in Burma, Mum sent me down to her father’s farm near Bishops Stortford. Although being evacuated, I missed Mum and my sister but it was probably the happiest time of my young life. Grannie and Grandad were retired and very popular in the village and treated me kindly and the farmers were good natured.

My story concerns the last summer I spent there as the war ended and I come home.

One reason for their friendliness was Grandad’s mead. Grannie kept bees and Grandad made mead, gallons of it. It fermented and matured in two large barrels that had once, so I was told, held sherry. Be that as it may, when the village had its Summer Festival, Grannie had a stall selling bottles of mead - ‘Return the bottles empty and clean please’ - and the farmers wives queued for an hour before the fete opened to make sure they got their husbands’ mead. I noticed the vicar’s wife collecting her basket later and a couple of bottles badly concealed in the bottom. Grandma explained, ‘The vicar and his wife are terribly poor and cannot afford to drink’. I thought, having just started going to communion, that if the altar wine was Grandad’s mead, the church would be full.

There were many tales of the life giving properties of the mead. One, I recall, when on holiday from school, was the Mothers Union. Mrs Mumfy, an old lady crippled with arthritis, was carried on a chair with Scout staves through the legs to Grannie’s where the meeting was held weekly. A solemn affair until the hymn singing started and as I sat outside reading the Beano, the singing got louder as the glasses were refilled with Grannie’s golden nectar and when the meeting ended, the solemn matriarchs of the village came out the front door singing and laughing, led by Mrs Mumfy carrying her chair and skipping along, ‘happy as Larry’.

Grandad gave me the secret recipe of his mead and now I bring pleasure to friends and family with my ‘nectar’.

About every two months a ledge caravan appeared down the main road pulled by a large Shire horse and driven by a gypsy with curly grey hair, a deep tan and a twinkle in his eye. It was always an event. He rang a bell and put out a trestle table by the side of the road and exhibited his wares. He had small lollipops for the children, one each, mind and an instruction to ‘Go and get your mummy son or miss’ which we obliged. He could repair pots and pans and clocks and there was always something bright and sparkly on his table that would appeal to the mothers.

The only problem came from Miss Jones, the village school teacher. She had grey hair tied in a tight bun and a stick that she beat the desks with. The children were well behaved and if not, she would visit their fathers. Twice her size, they would lick their lips and their child would behave as good as gold. Miss Jones hated Gypsy Joe. ‘Layabout, good for nothing’ she said.

After Gypsy Joe had dealt with the main trade from his stall he would go to her little cottage and knock at the door and ask if there were any jobs he could do? Miss Jones would grab a handy mop and chase him off her property. As he ran past us at the front gate he would say ‘Luva-nate,’ and disappear to the inn with his earlier winnings.

This performance was repeated every two or three months to our delight until one day Gypsy Joe tripped and fell unconscious on the path to the gate. Miss Jones was suddenly full of concern.

‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘you had better bring him indoors.’ He wasn’t very heavy and the farmers’ sons were pretty strong. We got him into her sitting room where I noticed a couple of Grannie’s bottles of mead. As we lowered him into an armchair he opened his eyes and winked at me - ‘Luva-nate,’ he whispered and shut them again. We waited outside after she ushered us out but got bored and moved off to play in the nearby wood.

When the summer holiday ended we found there was a new teacher. Miss Jones had disappeared without trace and the cottage was put up for sale.

A few months later Gypsy Joe reappeared with his Shire horse and ledge caravan.

‘Miss Jones,’ we all cried and indeed it was. Her grey hair was long and flowed down her back. She had a tan and a smile and sat on the seat next to Joe holding his arm. He was smiling too and when I had given his horse its obligatory apple, he leaned down, gave me a lollipop and said ‘Luva-note’. Later I asked Grandad if he knew what Luva-nate meant. He laughed.

‘You mean Love and Hate; they’re the two faces to the same coin!’